The writing of a will doesn't quite set the seal on your earthly preferences -
as is being demonstrated with the Burrell Museum in Glasgow

I have recently signed my will. Again. One of the eerie satisfactions of old age is to survey your worldly goods and redistribute them from time to time as the whim takes you. More serious considerations arise, too, such as the death of someone named in the will, whom you expected to survive you. Ageing is like that. Friends die in increasing numbers.

However, my new will is signed and sealed. So too is my “living will” saying exactly how I want to be treated at the end of my life. This is what’s now officially called an “advance directive”, a phrase more soulless than the lyrical “living will”. I prefer the latter. The two documents lie in the drawer of my desk, setting – I hope – the final seal on what will become of what is left of me when I’m gone: modest trinkets to friends, lump sums to selected deserving causes and larger lumps to my close family. It is a pattern much like any other middle-class, moderately affluent individual. And we believe that such a written will has the authority to carry our wishes into the future, giving us some sense of control beyond the grave and a feeling that our existence lingers and exercises its presence in the surviving world.

Not so for poor old William Burrell, Scottish shipbuilder extraordinary. His wishes are about to be “adjusted” by a private Bill in the Scottish Parliament. The fact is, if William Burrell had wanted his word observed to the letter, he should have been less rich and less generous. The burdens of wealth, it seems, don’t end with death.

Sir William was one of a generation of powerful Glaswegian shipping magnates. He grew wealthy on his hard work and obvious dedication, and like others in that generation of self-made and civic-minded entrepreneurs he was generous to his home. When he died in 1958 it was revealed that he had willed his dazzling art collection to the city. The city, in return, commissioned a fine new museum in Pollok Park and put on display some of the 8,000 items of medieval, Chinese and French and Islamic art. I saw a good deal of it when I reported on the opening ceremony in 1983. I spoke then of the debt great cities owed to generous philanthropists such as Sir William. I thought at the time, naively as it has proved, that that spanking new museum would last for ever and Sir William’s generosity be embraced in full.

But there is now a problem. Under the terms of his will, Sir William stipulated that he would not allow any works to be loaned overseas. Perhaps as a shipping man he knew the risks of damage; perhaps he was simply a passionate patriot and would, had he been alive now, be voting for Scottish independence. There’s another stumble too. The Burrell Museum, so impressive to my eyes at the opening in 1983, is now in need of repair and refurbishment. It will close for four years and its governors want to use the time to send the collection abroad.

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Except this is not what Sir William wanted. His stipulation was deliberately made and he expected his word to carry weight. What’s more, he believed it had the power of law behind it. Which it did. Except now they are going to change the law.

I muse on the mutability of all things. Nothing exists in perpetuity. Wars ravage cities, climate change swamps homes, museums need repairs. Human wishes are frail things and our wish to impose our will beyond the grave is dancing with moonbeams. When we leave the stage, the next generation steps forward to enjoy its place in the light. Writing my will has afforded me some satisfaction, allowing me to reflect on affections enjoyed, places cherished and love returned. More than that is not for me to expect. I just hope they get the trinkets.